


someone to watch over me

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Brainwashing, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 13:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16493627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Dr. Saunders. Claire Saunders. Dr. Claire.A woman who has her shit together.Claire doesn't need anyone to look after her.





	someone to watch over me

“We’ll look after you,” Claire says reassuringly.

Echo looks up at her, eyes spaced out. There should not be curiosity in those eyes, nor any emotion. But she reaches out a hand and almost manages to touch Claire’s scarred cheek before Claire pulls back.

She asks, “Does anyone look after you?”

Claire smiles. “I’m fine.”

“You’re doing your best,” Echo says, and she nods. She wanders away from the appointment soon after, and she doesn’t seem to worry about Claire any longer.

That woman…no, she’s not a woman right now, she’s a thing, so that doll, that doll will be the death of Claire. Probably the death of the whole Dollhouse, someday. Her thoughts are too independent. She is programmed to obey and trust Claire, almost as much as she obeys and trusts Boyd or Topher. But for some reason she doesn’t see Claire as the solid, assuring figure she should.

“No wonder she doesn’t,” some part of Claire whispers. “You’re a mess, an incompetent mess. Now even the dolls can see it.”

Claire does not listen to this part of herself. It is not worth listening to.

* * *

 

She is Dr. Saunders. Claire Saunders. Dr. Claire Saunders. Dr. Claire. Claire. Claire Saunders. Dr. Saunders.

These names mix and mingle in her head sometimes, like rhymes that can’t stop repeating. She can’t trace back when this started. Did it start when she got out of med school, or before then? She seems to remember herself as a med student trying out the name over and over again.

Dr. Claire Saunders. Dr. Saunders. Dr. Claire…that last one doesn’t seem right.

Claire. Dr. Saunders.

Yes. She thinks of that last one, in particular, and she can breathe. Still, in her head she is Claire. It would be odd otherwise, wouldn’t it? Claire Claire Claire E’clair Clair de la lune clarity clear Claire chair Claire. Clarify. Glaring Claire.

The name game takes over her brain.

Dr. Saunders. Dr. Saunders.

“Grumpy,” Topher calls her most days, which doesn’t seem right either. She feels like he used to be a bit nicer to her once, less impatient. Like he used to be somehow reassuring instead of irritatingly incompetent. She could swear he once called her pretty, but she can’t quite recall…anyhow her beauty is gone, it isn’t worth recalling.

Dr. Saunders. Dr. Saunders. The reliable man—the reliable woman, that is to say. The woman who keeps the dolls functional. The woman (other than Adelle) who keeps the damn Dollhouse running.

That is who she is. That is what she is. She is a woman who has her shit together. Her files in the Dollhouse records all commend her performance—she’s rarely had a bad review. If she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown she’ll always be able to push it back. After all, she has to.

One time she stared at Topher for a little too long. He looked back nervously. “Dr. Saunders? Are you okay?”

“I’m tired,” she said. She put a hand on her head. It hurt. “Why is it so hard to be your best?”

He’d started to speak but she stalked away. Embarrassed. When you were around dolls too much, you started talking like them.

A few days later she felt much better. This happens sometimes, after all. She always gets over it. Usually she can’t even remember why she was so upset in the first place.

* * *

 

_Does anyone take care of you?_

_Someone used to_ , she wants to say. But that’s a lie. All her life she has been on her own. Her family was poor. She worked her way into college, into a job with a dubious contract and intimidating superiors. She takes care of her self. Sometimes she even self medicates. Haha. She’s a doctor.

That’s a joke, her being a doctor. It’s a joke. She’s not sure why.

_Someone used to take care of me_ , she thinks. But she corrects herself. No. Dr. Saunders has always been alone.

* * *

 

There are nights where she gets so exhausted.

One of her dolls—no, not her dolls, never hers—one of the dolls, one of the Dollhouse’s dolls, one of her charges, gets hurt. Badly. Nearly dies. She spends hours in operations, feeling around and sewing stitches. Then gets told good job, now the doll gets put back in the drawer and it’s time for her to go back to bed.

There’s no way she can do that.

She paces around her office, lackadaisical, not awake enough to sleep, not energized enough to put her body down. She hums quietly. It’s an old country song—she remembers a woman singing it in her ear, though she can’t remember why. “Oooh whiskey, if you were a woman…I’d fight you and I’d win, Lord knows what….”

Someone is knocking on her door. Still humming, she opens it up. She knows who it is, can see through the glass. Why is Topher bothering her at this time of night? No surprise he’s up, he’s always playing games or working equations, creating new schemes or distracting himself with inanities. But usually even if they’re both night owls, their paths don’t intersect.

He steps in, spouting some babble about DeWitt telling him something, a joke about a night full of work not to be joked about. She touches his arm. Something. Something is here that she can’t touch, something familiar. He smells like home.

“Topher,” she says, “you look after me, don’t you?”

Topher pauses mid-rant. “Uh. Dr. Saunders?”

She shakes it off. “Never mind.” Of course Topher isn’t capable of taking care of anyone. He’s an idiot. Then why…

Why does he feel so safe on a night where she is walking on glass, eyes manically popped open, half-crazy and yet around him so relaxed? Why is he…different?

“Dr. Saunders, are you alright?”

Saunders. Ssssaundersssss. Sssssss.

claireclaireclaireclaireclaire

“I’m fine. I need a little sleep.” She pushes at her forehead. Saunders, Claire. Claire Saunders. Saire Claunders. Saine Claurders. Stop. “Topher, did you need something?”

“I think maybe you should take a nap, Dr. Saunders.” His hands touch her arms so gently.

“Yes, I just said…”

“It’s time for your treatment.”

Oh. Of course.

“I enjoy my treatments.”

* * *

 

She feels better in the morning. Rested. She feels that she acted stupid around Topher last night, but that’s fine. He’s acted stupid around her time and time again. He can deal with it.

Echo has a checkup. She’s just been out on another engagement. There are scrapes on her knees.

“You look tired,” Echo tells her.

“I’m fine, Echo.” She cleans out the cuts. “And how are you?”

“I’m fine, Echo.”

Claire gives her a look.

She smiles as if she didn’t say a thing. “I feel very well.”

“You know my name, right?” Stupid to care. Dolls don’t really retain things. “My name is Dr. Saunders.”

She tilts her head. “Is it?”

“Yes.” She puts a band-aid over the cuts. “There. That’s better, right? Now you can be your best.” She smiles as brightly as she can. “Go on.”

Echo leaves.

She does still feel tired. But that doesn’t matter. There is someone looking after her. No, there isn’t. No. Dr. Saunders looks after herself. But she is safe. In the Dollhouse, her home, she is safe.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a gifset of that scene where Echo's like, "Does anyone look after you?" and had to fic it. It was originally going to be femslash, but. Ran away with me. Anyways when it comes to Claire I can never resist throwing some Topher in.  
> Hope you enjoyed. Comments, especially from this dead fandom, would be much appreciated. :)


End file.
